


Night Alive

by orphan_account



Category: Romeo And Juliet - All Media Types, Romeo And Juliet - Shakespeare
Genre: Child Abuse, Gen, Underage Drinking, Verona is an awful place to be a kid
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-24
Updated: 2015-07-24
Packaged: 2018-04-11 00:02:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4413089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tybalt usually loves the night; but tonight is different, and all he really wants is to be alone. That is, until Mercutio shows up outside of his bedroom window, drunk, loud, and all too honest. There are some things Tybalt really doesn't want to have to think about.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Night Alive

It was too loud.

The situation was almost pitiful, Tybalt thought to himself for what he didn’t doubt was at least the fifth time that night, staring up at the blank expanse of his ceiling in the darkness above him. Usually the silence of the night felt heavy to him- almost like a blanket, warm and safe and comforting. On the nights sleep seemed to elude him he would often spend what felt like hours just staring up at nothing, immersed in the utter tranquility of the sleeping world around him. But tonight, the loud bangs and thumps echoed throughout the house, joined every so often by the occasional shriek; it wasn’t unfamiliar background noise for him to bear an ear to, but for some reason it seemed so much _louder_ than it ever had tonight. Tybalt was finding it impossible to even imagine sleep; he’d long since lost track of how long he’d spent lying in bed, trying not to think about just what his father was doing with his latest whore tonight.

The fourteen year old let out a sigh, shifting on his side to support his head with his arm. He’d been studying the same photograph for the last half hour; the familiar image that sat on his bedside table, of himself as a young child being held in his mother’s arms. He’d drunk in every detail of the photo countless times, to the point where he was sure he had his mother’s face memorized; her pale skin, dark, almond shaped eyes and thick black hair was so much like Tybalt’s own. Everyone in the family always said that the resemblance he bore to his mother was striking (even though his aunt always insisted that he looked more like his father). Tybalt honestly didn’t see it. His mother was beautiful; he knew better than to call himself handsome in any sense of the word. Not to mention that his warm, extroverted mother was a far cry from her increasingly droll and sullen teenage son, with his cold looks and hard voice. But the young boy propped up in his mother’s warm caress didn’t seem to have a care in the world- not to how he looked, which parent he resembled the most in face and character, and certainly not over the fact that merely two years later his mother would take a turn down the wrong street and wind up caught in the middle of the biggest earthquake Verona had ever seen. Tybalt had just turned six, and he never saw his mother alive again.

His mother had been a good person; giving, generous, and friendly. She hadn’t deserved to die the way she did. No, Tybalt was nothing like her.

In the other room, the banging sounds were growing louder, the howling increasing in frequency and volume; Tybalt groaned, pressing his pillow over his head. If his father heard him, he’d be angry- bearing witness to such things, he’d explained to Tybalt one night when he was trying to convince him to watch, would help build his character for when he was older and busying himself with the exact same acts. But Tybalt couldn’t care about character building at the moment, nor did he really care about what he’d do when he grew older; right now, more than anything he just wanted to get some sleep. And he _really_ didn’t need to know as much as he presently did about the virility of his father.

He shut his eyes, hoping that eventually he’d be able to drown out the racket if it didn’t fade away on it’s own; but the complete blackness only seemed to amplify his father’s good time even more, and Tybalt found himself seized with the sudden urge to fling himself out the window.

His eyes flickered of their own accord over to the window on the other side of the room, and it was in that moment that something alarming dawned on him.

There was a face watching him from his bedroom window.

Tybalt sprang out of bed, immediately on his feet and pulling the knife he’d stashed away out from under his pillow. A pair of golden eyes blinked back at him from high up in the tree just outside his room, and at the glint of metal the face the orbs were set in curled in a fierce grin. In that instant, Tybalt realized exactly who his late night visitor was; and it could only be one person.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he hissed to Mercutio, flinging the window wide open. From his rather uncomfortable-looking perch in the tree the other boy shrugged, brushing his messy honey-blond bangs out of his eyes. His face was slick with sweat, and the air outside was heavy with night humidity.

“I felt like exploring,” he retorted energetically, gesticulating with his hands as if to demonstrate; at the roll of eyes from the other boy this statement garnered, Mercutio swung his legs over the branch and in an instant very nearly wound up plunging fifteen feet towards the ground. Without even thinking Tybalt’s hand shot out to steady him; and with little more than a grumble he helped a rather unusually shaky-on-his-feet Mercutio climb into his room.

“What’s the matter with you?” he hissed once Mercutio was safely inside; his reply was another crazed grin. 

“Nothing; everything. What’s the matter with me? What’s the matter with you? What’s the matter with the world, earth, science, art, politics? Everything is broken these days, there’s something the matter with everything and anything under the sun. Even the sun’s broken- so if you really want to go into what’s wrong with me, we’ll be here all night. Why do you ask?”

Mercutio rambling was nothing unusual; but Tybalt caught the scent of something yet still familiar on the other boy’s breath.

“You’ve been drinking,” he observed, crossing his arms. Mercutio held up both hands, as if to concede to the statement.

“Out of curiosity, no more or less.”

“Curiosity led you to consume what smells and _looks_ -” Tybalt disdainfully glanced the visibly swaying teen over- “like an entire bottle of whatever it was you nicked from under your uncle’s eye? Surely curiosity is not that powerful, or else you are simply very very weak.”

“Both, my dear Tybalt,” Mercutio laughed, tossing an arm around the other boy’s shoulders which was quickly shrugged off. “I am both curious and weak; lethal.”

“You’d know.” It wasn’t that Tybalt was worried about Mercutio, or anything remarkable like that… except for the fact that he was. He, like most of Verona, had attended Mercutio’s father’s funeral not ten years before; the man had drunk himself into a hole that he could not get out of, and all of Verona’s gossips knew that the reason Prince Escalus himself chose to abstain from the drink was due to his brother’s unfortunate fate. Surely, Tybalt thought, Mercutio wouldn’t be half so foolish or reckless as to start himself down on a path he wouldn’t be able to turn back on; only this was _Mercutio_ , and of course he would. “Why?” was his only question, and as he sat on the edge of his bed his scrutinizing gaze made it clear that he was expecting an answer from the prince’s nephew.

Mercutio blinked at him dully for a moment then seemed to shrug, turning as if noticing his surroundings for the first time. “Don’t know. Felt like it, I guess. This _room_ \- it’s been years, hasn’t it, since I’ve been in here? It’s changed remarkably little.”

“Mercutio.”

“Do you still have that stuffed cat?” asked the blond, turning with a teasing smirk to glance over his shoulder at the Capulet. “The black one, with the blue and purple dots, what was his name- Mister…”

“Mister Bumblebee,” Tybalt replied stiffly, suddenly thankful that his stuffed companion was safely concealed under his covers, “and yes, I do, as you know he was a gift from my mother and I am reluctant to part with him. But what happened that you-”

“Nothing happened,” replied Mercutio, the venom suddenly much clearer in his voice; he refused to meet Tybalt’s eye as he turned to study the posters lining his walls. “You’ve got crap taste in music.”

“As well as who I let in my room at one in the morning,” noted Tybalt, pressing a hand to his temple. Mercutio made a noise of vague surprise.

“Is it really so early?”

“Well, it’s not as if you’d be expected to know,” shot back the Capulet disdainfully. Mercutio was going to make his room reek. The last thing he needed was for his father to think he was stealing his alcohol. “I’m surprised you can even still see straight.”

Mercutio laughed- loudly, loudly enough that Tybalt’s heart began to pound and he glanced, panic-stricken, over his shoulder. “I can’t!”

“Idiot!” Tybalt took a swing that connected hard with Mercutio’s shoulder; the prince’s nephew didn’t even try to evade the hit. “My father is in the next room! Are you trying to get me in trouble?”

Mercutio leaned back on Tybalt’s bed, rolling his eyes and snickering dryly. The sound was bitter, almost like the crinkling of plastic, lacking all of Mercutio’s usual intense enthusiasm. “Don’t act like you’re any better,” he shot back flatly. “I can see your face, you know. The liquor doesn’t make your eye look any less bruised than it is.”

Tybalt’s back straightened stiffly; of course, how could he have forgotten? Mercutio was one of the last people he wanted to see him when he looked like this; surely it would be all over Verona as soon as the hangover wore off. He narrowed his eyes, trying to avoid showing any panic and maintain some semblance of composure. “It was an accident,” he replied stonily.

“Right. I’m sure he didn’t mean to hit you.”

“He doesn’t hit me!” Tybalt shot back, a bit too quickly. He went still, his eyes black as night in the vague light illuminating the darkened room; they gazed at Mercutio imploringly, and were met by a derisive look in return.

“You forget, Tybalt,” Mercutio sighed, “I’ve known you for longer than almost anyone. I know things about you that you don’t know. Don’t you know _me_ better by now?” Tybalt returned his stare blankly; Mercutio raised an eyebrow, but even so seemed wholly unsurprised. “No,” he replied, stretching out along the bed. “We all have our crosses to bear. I won’t say a word.”

“A promise made by a drunken man is not a promise kept.”

Mercutio let out a hoot, and Tybalt swiftly kicked his foot to silence him. “Drunken, yes. Man, no. Thus, your old proverb has no basis. You should be a judge, only you’re far too hotheaded.”

“You already are the village idiot, so I can’t give you any career advice in return.” Resigning himself to a night spent awake- he hadn’t planned on sleeping anyway- Tybalt ventured over to his closet and pulled out a blanket. He remembered from experience Mercutio’s habit of getting colder as he slept. He tossed it on top of the young royal, who immediately looked up at him in surprise, before Tybalt swiftly pulled the covers up over his head.

“There,” he remarked, before settling himself down at his desk and pulling a book out from the drawer. “Feel free to pass out at any time.”

Mercutio, though his face was hidden and voice was muffled under the blankets, still seemed baffled. “I- I can’t-”

“Can’t climb down the tree without killing yourself? You’re right. Can’t go out the front door at risk of having your head busted open by my father? Also spot on. Congratulations Mercutio, you get to sleep here tonight. Make yourself comfortable. Don’t be a pest. Shut up and go to sleep.”

Mercutio remained in a silent state of drunken bemusement for a long moment before grudgingly muttering, “I don’t owe you anything for this.”

“I don’t want anything from you,” Tybalt shot back immediately, turning a page in his novel. Mercutio didn’t say another word after that; a few minutes later, when Tybalt glanced over out of sheer curiosity, the young blond’s flushed face was the only thing visible poking out from under the blankets. His mouth parted slightly, his eyes shut, he was as tranquil as Tybalt had ever seen him; the Capulet studied him for a few moments in silence before returning to his book again.

xXx

Three years later, on another night that was filled with noise, too much noise, Tybalt’s eyes wandered across a crowded, smoky room and locked eyes with Mercutio again. The blond had one scantily clad girl hanging off his arm and another on his lap; his face bore a familiar red flush, and the disorientation in his eyes was no surprise to Tybalt. As the Capulet pulled the girl in front of him close, wrapping his arms around her waist as she purred into his ear, he couldn’t quite ignore the hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach- a feeling that he realized hadn’t been there before on a night that seemed so long ago, helping the prince’s nephew through his bedroom window.

He pushed the thought out of his mind, locking lips with the all-too-eager girl. His father was dead now; Mercutio’s first drink had not been his last. The past was the past and there was nothing that could be done. After all, they all had their crosses to bear.

**Author's Note:**

> My next multi-chapter will be a story involving the death of Tybalt's father and the repercussions thereafter. It will get pretty dark, and will explore some themes such as incest, child abuse, and murder. So, something Shakespeare would probably read while eating popcorn, then. This story could be considered a prequel, perhaps, and is set before Tybalt's father's death- when Tybalt and Mercutio were a bit more civil to each other.


End file.
